


Say Something Stupid About Girls and Drinks

by cafemusain



Series: some terrible nights [1]
Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Absent Parents, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - High School, Gen, References to Suicide, Underage Drinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-10
Updated: 2013-01-10
Packaged: 2017-11-24 08:29:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/632444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cafemusain/pseuds/cafemusain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Summer before senior year, a dangerously drunk Grantaire disappears from a party and Enjolras finds him. They both realize things can’t keep going the way they’ve been. Gen, High School AU (lmhsau).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Say Something Stupid About Girls and Drinks

Don’t think about Mom and Dad, don’t think about your fucking condescending perfect brother, you’re totally fine to drive—

It’s not like you’ve never done it before. At this point you’re pretty sure you do more driving un-sober than you do sober; you just hope you crash instead of getting caught. Wouldn’t they just love that, a court date and a DUI and a scandal. You don’t mind if you wind up a cautionary tale in driving class or a mention in the once-a-year prayer before Thanksgiving dinner, just as long as there are no more cold looks over the table, no more half-distracted lectures when grades come home but no concern when you don’t show up with them.

_If you took initiative or responsibility—_

Always take roads you know are quieter. Don’t go too fast, keep checking your speed. Courf’s house isn’t far, and you’ve probably driven there more times than you have school. Keep both hands on the wheel, except when you reach up to wipe tears out of your eyes with your sleeve, you pathetic drunk piece of shit. 

_Nothing we can do to help you will mean a thing if you don’t help yourself—_

You nearly crash into the car that’s occupying your normal spot on the curb. Your brakes screech and you bump the other car—you think it’s Bahorel’s  _fuck_ —just barely. Fuck. Shit. You heart is beating a thousand miles a minute and you realize Courf has people over—apparently a lot of people. You take a minute to try to collect yourself. You wouldn’t have minded if it was just Courfeyrac. Courf’s stuck with you at this point, friends out of habit more than anything, because it’s not like you ever give anything back. He’s too nice, at heart, to ever say no to you showing up smashed at his house.

_Always blaming others for your flaws—_

When you stand up you can tell you’re already at the point where you’ll barely remember coming into the house when you wake up tomorrow. Music pounds, and you wonder why he didn’t invite you until you check your phone and there are like, seven texts from various people. Well, clearly they got a hold of booze from someone else, so you don’t even check what they say. You just want to crash the fuck out on Courf’s couch. 

_Don’t you dare blame this on us when we’ve given everything to you—_

He grins when he sees you and throws a companionable arm around your shoulder. “Grantaire, awesome, I was wondering if you’d come—” “Dude, hey—” “Holy  _shit_  Grantaire how much have you had?” He asks with a laugh and a wrinkle of his nose, and you’re pretty sure it’s the kind of laugh that’s meant to cover up judgment. You disentangle yourself. “Nah it’s fine, I’m good! Couldn’t miss a shindig, just pregaming—”

_You have no respect for them at all—_

You’re not sure why you came in anymore. You could have just pulled into school and slept in your car or something until it all blew over. You catch sight of a shock of blonde hair—not fucking now, not now please not now—and stumble to the makeshift bar and pour yourself… something. It’s mostly vodka. You’re glad you don’t have to switch to beer; it takes too long to drink and makes you full. You’ve only ever thrown up when beer got involved.

A few more in and you’re in a corner with some girl who wouldn’t have looked twice if she were sober. You’re actually the shittiest person alive; you can feel every person in the room staring at you because of it as she presses up against you. You might throw up for sheer hatred of yourself.

Someone puts a hand on your shoulder oh  _hell_.

“I don’t need your  _shit_  tonight Enj—Enjolr _fuck_. Enjorlas. Enjolras.”

“Grantaire, Courfeyrac is worried and we think it’d be best if you go up to one of the guest rooms—”

“Leave me the fuck alone, this isn’t your  _concern_ —”

He’s got those lazer-beam eyes focused on you, he’s always too close, too close and too much. It’s like staring into the sun. Some part of your brain thinks, Icarus. Selfish and young and foolish. You don’t even have the courage to fly too close—you shove him away and start making your way back up the stairs to your car. 

_Can’t you see what you’re doing to this family, you selfish—_

You only wanted to get away from them, you only wanted to sit in your car for a while and settle down and maybe (hah) sober up before you go back in. Nobody follows you, nobody’s even noticed your departure—they’re probably glad for your absence. Fucking fine. You rev the engine. 

You’ve never actually driven this far gone before. It’s raining—turn on the wipers. You’re fine. Just get somewhere. Just calm down. It feels like you’re moving smoothly from moment to moment, everything is going so fast, and before you know it you’re halfway to somewhere on a back road. In the instant after, you realize that nothing moves this fast, you’re spinning, you’re gonna fucking die thank God—

The car stops with a shudder. You didn’t notice you were sobbing but you can hear it when you get out of the car—you’re in a ditch, you’re not on the road. People say that shock sobers people up, but it’s wrong, you’re just as drunk as before only now you’re crying and you’re sitting next to your car in the grass. It could be okay to lie down here. Maybe you really are dead. Maybe that’s okay, they won’t have to worry about you anymore.

* * *

You’ve never personally been drunk, but it’s obvious when your friends are. They’re more affectionate, they’re more open, they fall more and laugh more. Grantaire, however, is lately almost always drunk. Even at school he’s usually got a flask on him, and it’s become something of a running joke. You don’t think it’s funny at all. Something is almost certainly very wrong, but it isn’t your place to ask, isn’t your place to confront him about it.

It wouldn’t have been too out of the ordinary for him to show up at a party already… loosened up, but this time something’s different. He keeps almost saying something, and there’s a hunted look in his eyes, and he’s wobbling a lot more. He almost never wobbles. On a normal night, he stops moving so gracelessly for about three drinks before he sits down, and then he falls asleep.

You are very good at reading your friends, especially when they aren’t sober enough to hide what they’re feeling.

Even Courfeyrac is visibly worried: he keeps looking over despite saying “he’s been worse.” Eventually he asks you to say something, or at least to try to get him upstairs, and you promise you will. It’s the best course of action.

Your first attempt is as much for Grantaire’s sake as the girl’s, but it’s futile. He’s in a mood, the kind where sober _or_  drunk he’s not willing to listen to reason. He asks you to leave him alone, so you do.

And then, half an hour later, you realize he’s disappeared.

There are plenty of places he could have gone—the bathroom, outside to smoke, maybe even upstairs, not wanting to let you know you’d won. You check them all. You check outside, and his car isn’t there. You know for sure he wasn’t in any state to drive, and you don’t think he arrived with anyone. You pull Courfeyrac aside.

“… fuck. Enjolras,  _fuck_.” “I agree,” you respond. “Um, shit, dude. None of us can drive yet, I’ll be fine in like half an hour—”

“I’ll look for him,” you tell him and look him straight in the eyes. He nods.

Combeferre calls Grantaire’s sister, who says he isn’t home, she thought he was spending the night because he’d had a fight with his parents—that explains how he’d been acting, how much drunker he’d been than usual. She wasn’t the one who drove him, which means Grantaire is in his car.

You call his cell several times from three different numbers. There is no answer. The phone company won’t let you track the number’s location if you’re not a parent or guardian, and you think getting them involved could only make things worse. Your relationship with your parents isn’t ideal, but you get the impression that his might be downright unhealthy.

Which means you will have to find him on your own. Combeferre is ready to drive by now, and he haphazardly guesses how far Grantaire possibly could have gotten in the interval between when he was last seen and now. Most likely he has no particular destination in mind, so you will be sure to check parks, car lots that aren’t patrolled. Courfeyrac lives in a suburb, but it’s a fairly rural one, with lots of space between houses and no streetlamps.

You might not find him, you think to yourself. You aren’t sure why you feel it’s your responsibility to do so in the first place.

It’s an orderless search through back roads, looking for a sign that his car might have veered off into the woods. Looking for anything. You’re on the verge of calling the police when you check one last road and find his car on the side, and him asleep, little enough shelter given by the open door.

There’s no relief. You text Combeferre and proceed straight to anger. You pull your car over and start flashing your brights at him. He blinks, and you step out and start moving towards him. He cracks a smile. 

“I’m dead, aren’t I?”

You don’t find it nearly as amusing as he does. “No, by some miracle—”

His face falls and he blinks again, rubbing his eyes. He’s still very, very drunk, and you’re astonished he woke up. 

“How could you possibly think it was a good idea to drive away from Courfeyrac’s house in your state?” You don’t want to get closer, you don’t think he wants you any closer, so you pace. You’re furious, and you’re not even sure why. “Don’t you realize you could have been killed? Don’t you have any idea how thoughtless you were?” 

He starts laughing.

“This isn’t funny, what is  _wrong_  with you—”

He snorts. “I didn’t know you fucking cared,” he spits bitterly, and you stop and look at him closer.

“ _What_?”

“I said,  _I didn’t know you fucking cared_. Any of you.”

“Of course we care, Grantaire, we’re your  _friends_ —”

“I can’t believe this bullshit from you of all people, call yourself my  _friend_ —” but he’s started to cry. Oh, hell, he’s crying. “You haven’t said the word ‘friend’ in three years of knowing me, and you expect me to believe it _now_? I practically crashed my car, I’m sitting here on the side of the road  _crying and_ _drunk_ , and you, you  _of all people_ , show up—”

Your eyes widen. It’s starting to click, and if you were any kind of friend you’d have noticed long before.

“You’re not okay, are you?”

He doesn’t even protest, just shakes his head, and you sit down next to him in the mud, nudging him gently with one shoulder. He sputters some kind of a laugh through tears and snot. He is not an attractive cryer. You put your hand on top of his for just a moment. “We were worried.”

This only makes him hang his head and grit his teeth as tears continue to fall. “I’m a fucking mess, okay, there’s no reason anyone should worry about me—”

“It’s not a matter of should. You’re our friend. We were worried. We’re—I’m still worried, Grantaire.” 

You sit there until he’s not crying so hard, hand just barely touching his and shoulders pressed together. You’ve always found it easier to communicate through touch—you can give a good speech, but when it comes to friends, words aren’t always enough. Words are for everyone. Nudges and gestures and touches, those are for the ones you care about. And against all better judgment, you do care about him. 

“Someone will come get your car,” you say gently. “You’ll spend the night at Courfeyrac’s—we can talk about it in the morning.”

He looks at you with his eyes red and puffy and disbelieving, and suddenly you’ve got his arms wrapped around your neck. Tentatively you hug him back. You’re certain this is the first time you’ve ever hugged him. “You’ll be fine,” you reassure him, trying to be as soothing as possible. You hope you’re not lying, and you intend to do as much as you can to make sure he will be fine.

You turn on an indifferent radio station for the ride home and bring him into Courfeyrac’s house through the back door. You have to support him as you bring him up to the guest room, his legs unsteady from alcohol and emotional exhaustion. You find him sweatpants in Coufeyrac’s dresser and he keeps blinking blearily at you, as if unsure you’re really there.

You turn down the covers and he crawls in without protest. “Courfeyrac will bring your car back,” you say gently, sitting on the bed. You made sure to grab Courfeyrac’s attention when Grantaire was changing. “I don’t think—I don’t think any of us understood, until now.”

He looks pained and hurt and you wish very much there was nothing making him feel that way. He’s lazy, he doesn’t believe in anything, but nobody deserves to hurt that much, and you know he’s the sort of person who has a tendency to hurt himself. There’s so much more to him, and you’re starting to think his cynicism is less of a choice than a defense mechanism.

“I’m—Enjolras.” He looks you in the eye as evenly as he can. “Thanks.”

You put a hand on his shoulder by way of answer. “Just go to sleep.”

He closes his eyes and you wonder at the gesture of trust in someone who’s clearly been burned. You keep rubbing his shoulder until his breathing evens and your heart feels a little lighter. He’ll be alright. Even if he returns to the Grantaire of freshman year, awful and irreverent, it’ll be an improvement. Between you and the rest of your friends, you’ll make sure he’s alright.

**Author's Note:**

> Huge thanks to Stuart who spurred me on and chose the title, and a GIANT thanks to Winter who originally came up with the Grantaire-going-missing concept. Originally posted on Tumblr at http://lesgles.tumblr.com/post/40069725689/say-something-stupid-about-girls-and-drinks-an


End file.
